The Hourglass
by Arya May
Summary: In which Prussia reflects on what he is now, as a nation that should have died- but refused to die, even when he was dissolved and had nothing left, not even a name in the present world to credit what he once had been. Angsty fic.


**_The Hourglass_**

A/N: So lately, I've become very interested in a nation otherwise known as the awesome Prussia- san, and his history was, nevertheless to say- a very, very intruiging read. So...in honour of this country that once was a terror of Europe and honestly, in my opinion, still should have been a country (at least do it for Fritz?)- this is a oneshot on him.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, but I own the plot of this oneshot. And honesty- if I did own APH, you'd be seeing a lot more...heh.

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><p>It is usually during late nights like this when the guilt rose up from behind that facade he wore as a face, and threatened to level the wall that kept at bay the old horrors and fears that would otherwise rule his reality.<p>

He would wonder then- how much the hourglass had drained, and how many grains of sand still remained before it ran out, and time finally allowed him to die- because in truth, there was hardly a reason as to _why _he was still alive, and not dead and gone like Bavaria, and Saxony, and Brandenburg- or hell, even Germania himself when his lands had been dissolved, his army gone, and even his name. Even the very memory of his former power was starting to smear and vanish- just like everything else- from the world.

The old kingdom was dead- and it had been since sometime in the 1900's he would rather forget about then look back and in turn, see what had once been his to hold- everything that was now reduced to just whispers in history books collecting dust on shelves. The Free State of Prussia lasted for so short a time he could barely even put a finger on when and when it had been there, and after the wall fell and Germany reunified, he was done. Spent. He wasn't sure what he is, and not was- but what he now is was a memory dangling in some sort of limbo between reality and obscruity. It was a truth he tried to avoid, but one that he knew he had to face, one that was hard to accept and one not willingly accepted.

Why it was hard to accept sat on the fact that everything could have been so _different, _instead of this situation he now found himself trapped in and had no choice but to abide by. Things were definetly not the way that they should be, and they hadn't been what they were supposed to be in once upon a time, long past, when he could still look at other nations and laugh in their faces, because he knew that he had enough power to crush them under his thumb. He still laughed of course , but it rather out of scorn and self mockery then scorn and direct mockery. How could he not laugh- not when once he had been a world superpower with almost all of Europe at his knees? He still remembered those times as though they were yesterday- the best few centuries of his life where for once, he lived without fear, and lived without this worry of life itself that he carried on his shoulders.

The past was so different from the present. It was so sweet and translucent and flew by so quick that all it left behind was a crumpling memory waiting for the end to come, huddled in his brother's basement.

Ludwig was gone often now, but he knew that the blond looked upon him with unveiled pity whenever he turned his back. It made him see again, just how vast is the border that seperates their strength. It's ironic really, because as the older sibling- Germany should have been looking up at Prussia, not the other fucking way around. He stands a whole head shorter now, when some time- another era ago- it had been Ludi that had been at his wraist and he supporting the blond up.

It sickens him at times to see how much he had regressed- and how utterly weak he had become.

When he looks in the mirror, what he sees is not what he had remembered seeing before. Each time he looks at himself- the hollow face of the man in the reflection grows thinner as his haunted eyes are more and more distant from reality. At first, he did not believe that this _mockery_ was himself, but it was just another truth he didn't want to face. His ragged appearance and deteriating state was as easy to connect as black and white on shades of grey. When he screams himself awake from those terrible nightmares that now haunt him more then ever and those rivers of bitter tears run down his gnaut cheeks, he is reminded yet again of how powerless he is, and what a battered and useless waste of oxygen he now stood as. What he now is is _nothing_, and maybe that was why everything around him was centered around what he was. The diligent soldier as opposed to the lazy slacker, the dutiful brother as opposed to the annoying narcissist that was frowned upon and never really productive...

Only, he wasn't any of those things anymore. They were gone, a once upon a time that would never be back no matter how hard he reaches for them, because there was nothing more to reach for.

The world is rushing ahead, leaving him at its heel- and it never looks back, while he can no longer pull himself up to go after it. He had climbed to the peak, saw everthing berneath him, fallen off, and crashed at the bottom. The black eagle no longer soars in the sky- his wings are clipped and he has been thrown off the throne of glory. Sometimes, he hates the world- because the future is one he can no longer see ahead as he is left trailing further and further behind- entrenched in the past of what had been and what was formerly his.

He no longer has the strength to walk with everyone else, because they were still nations, and he was just a memory- a name that was already being forgotten. He is a nation that should have died, but refuses to die, and defied even his own expectations of the outcome of his fate. Whether he should be happy for this, he does not yet know, as the old military man in him still battles Gilbos the Awesome for control of reason, and in all- reality of the time that was still draining away, until it is all over and he had reached the end in which all things awaited.

But then, the pendulum still swings, he is still alive- and he would still fight until the last breath , because he was Prussia- and Prussia knew war, if not anything else. If death was his enemy, then he would still fight the enemy, even if it was a losing battle because he never surrendered. And even if the hourglass was draining away, he would still fight on. For West, for Feli, for Lizzy- hell, even for Specs, and for that promise given to Fritz before he died that his nation would never give in easily to anything that threatened him. He would still live and push on, if for nothing else- his own life, if not anyone else's. Even if the hourglass was draining still, because before Gilbert Weillschmidt, he was Prussia, and Prussia always refused to relent until the very end.

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><p>Review please? PLEASE?<p>

*(Points to the review link and flaps arms around madly.)*


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